


Recovered

by somekindofseizure



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Anniversary, F/M, MSR, Post-Revival, revival, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Season 10.  Scully looks after Mulder as he recovers from his near-death experience, and he realizes one morning that it's a very special day for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovered

 

It feels strange to watch the sunrise each morning in this old, familiar way.  In her cotton underwear and his t-shirt, sitting at the kitchen table they once shared.  Thinking dreamily of the night’s prescient moments as daylight casts warmth on her bare legs.  It is almost exactly the same.  But now she thinks of how she listened to his chest to make sure his air passages were free, and not to sync her breath to his.  Now she is up early to take his temperature, and not to take him into her mouth. 

She looks at her bare feet on the chair across from her, the red polish chipped and faded as an old corner-store awning, and realizes she has never even seen a sunrise from her own apartment window.  She rises with a sigh and prepares his tea, sets it on a tray with an array of potions and pills, walks back into the bedroom where she places them on his nightstand.  

She pads quietly to the bathroom, swirls her hand around in the warm suds in the sink, letting the plug loose till her bras and panties cling to the drain. She’s only been back to her place once to get clothes since she began nursing him at home.  His home, that is.   _Three weeks_ , she thinks, maybe it’s time for her to go.  

When she comes out of the bathroom, he is leaning up on an elbow, sipping from the mug she gave him. The sight of his tawny bicep twitching as he raises the mug stops her in her tracks.  It would be so easy to step a bit closer, grip his fuzzy, matted teddy bear hair in her knuckles and pull his face to her.  He looks so long and broad and strong that it’s hard to believe he nearly died… but she does believe it, she was there. 

“Morning,” she says cordially.  “You look well.”  If she weren’t walking around in her underwear, she could be in a hospital, putting up a whiteboard and writing her name on it, reaching for his chart by the door.  This is the voice she’s been filling the bedroom with for three weeks.  The sound of her old bedroom voice haunts her. 

“You look well too,” he says, grinning as she picks some clothes up off the floor and folds them. His bedroom voice is always the same. It’s the voice he uses with witnesses, waitresses, the one he used to shake her hand and introduce himself.  She can’t stop herself from trying to seem busy, trying to seem like her thoughts aren’t getting away from her.

“I wasn’t the one who was infected with something mighty enough to decimate the human race,” she says. 

“No, you’re the one who saved us from it.”  She raises her eyebrows and shrugs on a held breath.  She has no energy for saving humanity right now.   She’s weary of vaccines and viruses and DNA.  She just wants clean underwear.

He turns the covers back and sits up, wiggles his toes against the floor.  His shoulders rise to his ears as the muscles of his arms stretch into the mattress.  His chest is bare above his briefs, his morning erection pronouncing a shadow against his belly.  He yawns and his jaw slides against his cheek. 

“I was thinking maybe it’s time for me to go,” she says brightly. 

“Right now?  I know I need a shower but…”   

She smiles ruefully. It was not long ago that she feared he might never annoy her again.   

“Not that I want to keep you from your life…” he adds earnestly. 

“It isn’t that.”  She considers her words carefully, but eventually the silent weight of his attention pressures her into using the nearest phrase.  “You seem fine.”  He laughs, cocks his ear down in the direction of his penis.  

“You must mean that.” 

“No,” she says, going back into the bathroom without turning the light on, raising her voice over the tap of the cold water.  “That happens every morning.  It doesn’t mean you’re well, it doesn’t mean anything.  It’s just a natural biological reaction to waking up.   As we’ve discussed many times.” 

“What good is your being a doctor if I can’t ask questions?” 

“About your morning wood.” 

“What else would be worth asking about?” 

“I think you’re better, Mulder.  You don’t need me here to look after you,” she says, trying to sound pleased, wondering why that should take such effort.  She is standing over the sink, gently wringing the water out of lacy briefs when she feels the tips of his fingers on either side of her, poised in the subtle indentation on the outsides of each thigh.  It has always been one of his favorite places to put his fingers.  Her stomach dips as she looks up at him in the mirror in the low light, trying not to run down the list of his other favorite places to put them.  She shuts off the water.

His fingers drag up a couple inches till they tickle the hem of her shirt.  They stare into each other’s eyes in the smudgy glass, wading around the grey space of each other’s irises until she knows exactly what she has energy for, exactly what she wants.

She feels her weight distribute itself to her heels, and the bare skin of his dick brushes her spine. The information that he is hard and naked travels to her pussy, commanding her arms into the air.  He drags both his hands quickly up her sides, all the way up to her ribs, letting the t-shirt bunch in his palms as he lifts it over her head.  He places his hands on her shoulders as several other parts of her body take notice. 

“I do need you here,” he tells her reflection, the wind of his voice moving tiny strands of her hair. “Just not to look after me.” 

Her heartbeat is so thick she could choke on it.  She licks the half of her mouth she reserves for reasoning with herself, thinks of that hospital marker squeaking on the whiteboard.  “Mulder, you should probably save your strength.”

She turns to face him, eyes the doorway as if she might actually leave him and his perfect smooth dick and his soulful eyes here to watch her underwear cling to the sink.  Instead, she stays put beneath him, his breath masked with lemony Early Grey, drifting warmly down the front of her body. Usually, she can tell how healthy he is by the way his breath and sweat smells, the way his saliva tastes. But those are not the standards of measurement she’s been using lately. 

As he strokes the indentation of her hip bone with a thumb, sneakily prying her open, she realizes she’s wearing her only dry pair of underwear.  Or was.  His eyes light up in excitement as she capriciously scrapes them down off her legs, lifting one foot at a time, her breasts brushing against her thighs.  She closes her eyes in a long blink as she drops the underwear into the sink.   

“It just occurred to me I should wash them, that’s all,” she laughs as she lies to herself out loud.  He chuckles in his raspy tenor.  “No, no, really that’s what I was thinking,” she says, laughing over him.  In a rush of force, he puts his hands on her waist and heaves her onto the lip of the sink, grunting with arousal as he pulls her knees snugly around his hips.   

“That might’ve been my last ounce of strength.  Don’t make me waste it,” he says with his nose pressed into her cheek, his eyelashes fluttering against hers.  She spreads her hips wider against the cool, wet ceramic and guides the tip of his cock toward her body, sliding her hand over the firm muscles of his ass once he’s inside her.

And as their lips meet and his long, warm tongue slithers past her teeth, she sucks it hard in the vacuum of her mouth, pulling the essence of him into the measuring cup at the back of her throat as he moans.  She smiles with relief as he grinds into her in gentle, shallow pumps. 

“Should I ask why you just did that or fuck you before my legs get tired?”

“Fuck me,” she says, kissing him briefly before she adds, “I was just making sure you’re okay.”  

“Yes.  Scully…” he says, sliding up into the groove he’s molded inside her over the years.  She rolls her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, into his body as he settles there. He grasps her around the back of the neck as he talks into the muss of hair around her ear.  “Do you know what today is?”

“Three weeks since you’ve been home?”  

He thrusts, shaking his head no against her face. 

“Laundry day?”  

He thrusts again and she gasps in delight.  “My lucky day?”

He thrusts again. “Mmm – Mulder … tell me,” she begs, her pussy wet and bossy.  

“It’s March 6th, our anniversary,” he says, holding still, and she feels her brow knit as she wonders if he’s not well after all.  “ _I’m Dana Scully._   _I’ve been assigned to work with you_ ,” he says, nearly melting her into the sink as he pretends to shake her hand between their joined bodies.  Twenty-four years, and so many of them, they’ve managed to be apart for one reason or another.  She grabs his hand and roughly attaches it to her breast, squeezing her hand over his.

“Here’s where I should have put that,” she says huskily against his lips as he begins to fuck her steadily. He takes his hand from where she left it, lowering it down her stomach to a spot she likes even better. 

“Let me look after you now,” he whispers.  And for the next few minutes, she does.


End file.
